


Not Quite Copper Marigolds

by Temporalis (Elvaron)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:48:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4629237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvaron/pseuds/Temporalis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corypheus is defeated, the Breach is sealed, and Cullen decides to complicate his life by proposing to Trevelyan. The problem is: how? (Cullen/M!Trevelyan)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the meme, where OP wanted Cullen proposing to the Inquisitor with a mabari puppy.
> 
> Regarding the title - yes, _those_ copper marigolds. See: Vallen, Aveline, Proposals-and-how-not-to-do-them.)

Cullen Rutherford, former knight-captain of the Templar Order, military advisor to to Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan of Ostwick, commander of the forces of the Inquisition and arguably one of the most powerful men in southern Thedas, drops his forehead to his wooden desk and hits it.

Repeatedly.

Then, after cracking open his eyes to make sure that his office is quite empty, he lets out a very soft whimper.

Cullen has survived the fall of the Circle of Kinloch Hold, the mage rebellion in Kirkwall, _and_ an archdemon rampaging across Thedas, tearing the Veil every which way, but he may just have hit his biggest challenge yet. Namely: how to propose to the Inquisitor.

Their relationship has been burning steadily for a few years now, through the chaos of Corypheus and the sealing of the Breach, and through the clean up that followed thereafter (and let's face it: the clean up took far longer than dealing with Corypheus did), a warm flame without a label, and Cullen never thought that they would ever need to put a name and a ceremony to it. But it's a quiet morning when he blinks awake to find the first light of dawn slanting through the hole in his roof, softly illuminating Trevelyan's features as he sleeps, and the realisation crashes over him that he wants to spend _forever_ with Trevelyan. And that he wants to swear his heart and hand to the man on the formality of a vow, in the presence of Andraste and friends as witnesses - to walk the steps of that ancient rite, not as a formality, not for political power, not to satisfy the demands of duty, but as a promise, an expression of everything that Trevelyan is to him. 

(It might be something in the intensity of his stare that causes Trevelyan to blink awake, staring fuzzily up at him - the Inquisitor is not exactly a morning person, but he's had years of fighting in the field and waking up to a sudden ambush, and he's sharp enough that he doesn't miss a tick even when half awake. They don't call him the _Inquisitor_ for nothing. Trevelyan's brow furrows - first in confusion, then in suspicion, and Cullen has to kiss him quickly to forestall any questions.

A few minutes later it starts raining, and the moment is lost, the Inquisitor's suspicions safely buried and forgotten under his tirade about how he doesn't care if the builders are interrupting Cullen's work or how much Cullen likes the ambience of having a _bleeding hole in the roof_ , he's going to get someone to patch that hole in the roof _right now_.)

But back to the present.

In the present, Cullen is flummoxed, frustrated, and frazzled, and probably a lot of other words that begin with the same letter. Sera or the Iron Bull would point out at least one more that shouldn't be repeated in polite company, and while Cullen would not appreciate it, he would have to grudgingly admit that they might be right.

Because Cullen Rutherford is, at his heart of hearts, a traditional man. And tradition dictates, nay, _demands_ that if he were to court the Inquisitor, he should do it _properly_. The problem is, he's so far out of his depth that he might as well be drowning. Most of the marriages he's familiar with are ones of convenience between the nobility - elaborate, arranged things with expensive and lavish dowries, pomp and circumstance, daggers hidden under linen cloth, political maneuvering and jockeying for power, and that is definitely not him and Trevelyan. His experience is no help at all - the templar order is the furthest thing from a shining example of marital bliss, and having been dedicated to joining the order for as long as he can remember, Cullen never actually thought that he would ever find himself in a situation where he would settle down with someone.

The other problem is that he's proposing to a man. While same-sex relationships are not uncommon in Thedas, and such marriages are not unheard of, they are, statistically, much rarer. There simply hasn't been the numbers required to build up any kind of tradition, or even to provide any helpful guidance for one very lost ex-templar. 

He's thought of "putting a ring on it", as some people would call it, but while Trevelyan isn't the Iron Bull, Cullen can't exactly imagine him with flashy jewelry, dripping mud and (someone else's) blood over the floor, returning from a cheerful trek to the Storm Coast. It would, at best, be a slightly trite and unsuitable dowry, and, as with all good gifts, he wants something more personal. Meaningful.

He's thought of flowers, but flowers wilt. Books? Not exactly romantic. Elaborate tapestries? Trevelyan has those by the crateful. He'll never be able to beat Trevelyan's collection of rare and exotic wines, and he doesn't want to give him something that could be drunk in a night, anyway. Weapons and armour seem to be the wrong kind of symbol for this sort of occasion, and an amulet might work, but Trevelyan's collection of far more _useful_ amulets is, in a word, impressive.

How does he get something for the man who has everything?

He could ask someone for help. However, although he and Trevelyan have never hidden their relationship, they're not exactly public about the details, and he doesn't exactly want to go around broadcasting the fact that he's trying to marry the _Herald of Andraste_ \- Josephine would have enough of a fit when she realises the diplomatic ramifications of that - and sooner or later, word would get back to Trevelyan (or worse, Varric). The traditional side of him wants to make sure that the proposal is a secret until it's sprung, because he really wants the memory of seeing Trevelyan's face light up with surprise and hopefully joy (and what do you mean it sounds like something out of Varric's bad romances, no no no, of course not).

(He wishes that there was some kind of magical tome which contained all the knowledge of the world, accessible to all, where scholar and commoner could write within and add to its pages. A collection of wisdom to rival any library, which one could access without cost - ah, but that would surely be a miraculous thing indeed, a force too dangerous to unleash upon the world.)

"You know, you could talk to Josephine," a voice says, and Cullen's head snaps up, his hand reaching for the sword he's not wearing before he realises that it's Leliana. So much for being alone. 

He stares for a long moment, and curses his naivety in believing that anything could possibly be a secret in Skyhold. Still, on the tiny off-chance that Leliana is mistaken, he says, very carefully, "I'm not exactly certain what you're talking about, Leliana."

Leliana affixes him with a cool stare that goes on for just a second too long, and Cullen has to fight the urge to squirm. He's faced abominations that were less terrifying. Finally, she sighs and folds herself into one of the chairs by his desk. "Perusing Varric's romances--" she glances at the pile of reference material on his desk, and Cullen blushes a deep red but restrains himself from trying to hide them. "Looking through the library shelves for marriage customs in Thedas, repeatedly wandering around the merchants in Skyhold while trying not to look like you're sussing out their wares, and that recent trip to Val Royeaux? One might reasonably assume that you're hunting for a wedding gift for Trevelyan," she states, deadpan.

Cullen wishes the floor would open up and swallow him.

"I wouldn't have said anything, but your distraction is becoming obvious, of late," Leliana continues, then her expression softens. "It would not be long before the Inquisitor notices. I account you a friend, Cullen. This is not my area of expertise, but I'm certain that Josephine can help. Besides, if you tell her only after you have made the proposal, she might just kill you."

"She'll kill me anyway if she discovers what I'm attempting," Cullen says, though it comes out as more of a groan. He resists the urge to beat his head against the table again - just barely. "The fact that the Inquisitor is not married is a diplomatic advantage for Skyhold, even if he has no intentions of marrying." He swallows back the stab of guilt at how selfish he's being, the doubts that he's been trying to push aside ever since he started on this quest, but they barge in, raining accusations about how he's putting his own wants above the needs of the Inquisition--

\--"You may be surprised," Leliana says, her words cutting calmly through the tirade in his head. "The Inquisition is not nobility; we do not hold to bloodline. Marriage to the Inquisitor does not give the spouse a claim to the lands and forces of the Inquisition. Similarly, we are not an institution that is seeking to expand our borders through that means - that is not our mission. But Josephine would be able to advise you better. In this case, it is _not_ better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission."

He can't argue with her logic. "Very well," Cullen sighs. "I will. Was there anything else?"

Leliana glances up at the ladder that leads up to his bedroom. "Trevelyan says to inform you that the builders will be arriving in an hour to patch the roof. You may wish to relocate."

What Trevelyan wants, Trevelyan gets, clearly. Cullen makes to move, notices the pile of half-read romance novels, and yelps when he realises that he has nowhere to hide them. Leliana takes them out of his hands with a promise to be discrete about slipping them back to where they came from, and he can swear that she's hiding a smile as she does so.

tbc.


	2. Chapter 2

"Perhaps you should ask Cassandra," Josephine says, and Cullen's jaw drops so far that it nearly hits the ground. 

"Pardon me, because I'm pretty sure I misheard, but you're asking me to ask Cassandra? Former Seeker Cassandra? Cassandra Pentaghast, who can beat me in a duel three times out of four? Divine Victoria?" 

Josephine gives him that look that she tends to get whenever he's arguing with her about the best way to tackle a sticky diplomatic mess. "Cassandra, our mutual friend, who is a romantic at heart and knows Trevelyan very well indeed."

Cullen can feel the beginnings of a headache stirring in the back of his mind. "Cassandra... and romance...?"

"Don't judge a book by its cover," Josephine says matter-of-factly. 

"But --" Cullen says. Whines, almost. 

Josephine folds one elegant hand over the other and stares at him for a very long time. "I can write the letter, if you wish," she says at last. "And besides, Cassandra will be furious if you do not inform her of the engagement."

Josephine will know how to put it most tactfully, and more importantly, Cullen will be able to run away from the entire mess and pretend that --

No. No. He is not a coward. He is a seasoned veteran of many battles, he is a warrior, he will not yield in the face of temptation, he will not take the easy way out--

"That would be most kind of you," his mouth says, as his brain scrambles to catch up, yelling in silent objection. 

Josephine smiles. "Very well, but in return, you are to allow me to organise the wedding."

As though it was ever going to be any other way. "Of course," he says.

"Which means not allowing the Inquisitor to elope," Josephine says pointedly.

Oh. He should have expected that.

"Good luck to us all if he decides that's what he wants," he mutters. 

*

Cassandra's message is short, sweet, and to the point:

_Get him what he likes._

Cullen groans and smacks his head on the table again. Later, when Trevelyan is trying to kiss the bruise away, eying it in concern, Cullen mumbles something about training matches and the importance of helmets.

*

Get him what he likes. What does Trevelyan like? He likes saving lives, jumping off the Skyhold battlements, and slaying the occasional dragon. None of the above are particularly appropriate as gifts.

"Sunshine while it rains," Cole says from right behind him, and Cullen nearly jumps right out of his skin. 

"Cole, for the last time, don't do that!"

"Jumping over balustrades," Cole continues dreamily, as though he hadn't spoken at all. "Placing buckets over doors. Smiles, he likes your smiles, watching you out of the corner of his eye when he thinks you're not watching. Sweat sliding on skin, pulse to pulse. The way you say his name when you are --"

"Cole," Cullen says in his best commander voice. "Stop."

Cole glances at him, wide-eyed. "Was that too much? Too much, too secret, all the quiet secret things. Sorry, so sorry, just trying to help..."

Cullen sighs inwardly. "It's alright. But could you keep this a secret? It's very important."

Cole tilts his head at him. The boy is getting better at grasping the idea that some things are private and shouldn't be said out loud, but it's largely still a work in progress. 

"It's supposed to be a surprise," Cullen explains, and Cole's face brightens with understanding. 

"A surprise, a secret," he nods. "I understand."

"Thank you," Cullen says, and the boy drifts off. As he trails towards the door, Cullen catches a snatch of his final words: "... Warm things, friendly things, trustworthy things."

*

"Lord Pavus," Cullen says. "A moment, if you would?"

He's never been particularly comfortable with the Tevinter mage - not least because of the mage part, but also because Pavus has a sharp eye and a sharper wit - what the mage would like to call wit, anyway. But he's at a loss and has been for a week, and he wonders, perhaps, if a perspective from a different land might shed some light on his plight. 

Pavus' eyebrows raise, and the ghost of a smirk starts to dawn on his face. "Why, Commander. I thought you'd never ask."

Cullen gives Pavus a suspicious look, wondering if he's suggesting that he's heard something, or if he's simply being ... Pavus. The man's look of studied innocence gives nothing away, and Cullen sighs mentally and decides to cut straight to the point. "I was wondering about ... marriage customs in Tevinter."

Now, _that_ is definitely a smirk. 

"Slaves," Pavus says. "If you were asking about the usual dowry, it's slaves. Which, by the way, I doubt our dear Inquisitor will appreciate, being a bastion of moral uprightness and a champion of free will."

Some of Cullen's exasperation - at least, he hopes its exasperation and not dejection - must show on his face, because Pavus actually pats him on the shoulder. 

"Or you could consider horses, which are the other traditional option, if elephants are in short supply," the mage says. "Though if I were you, I'd give him a collection of elf root and shiny metals. The man, I swear, is a magpie. The number of times we've had to interrupt a merry jaunt across the countryside to risk our necks going after some outcrop of iron on some terribly steep drop off the edge of a cliff - typically suspended over a pool of boiling lava..." He shakes his head. "You would think the Inquisitor's job was collecting random rocks and plants." 

"Horses," Cullen says thoughtfully, because horses are something he knows, at least. "I could look into that. Thank you."

Pavus grins a grin so smug that it's just a hair shy of twirling that ridiculous moustache in glee. "By the way," he says, "I'm calling dibs on being Maxwell's best man."

"Oh good," Cullen says. "You can drop a static cage on him if he tries to run away at the altar."

*

The go-to man for horses is, of course, Blackwall. Cullen spends a few hours talking to him about breeds - would the Inquisitor prefer a slender Taslin Strider, strong and spirited but delicate of feature, or one of those from the south, solid and regal, with high crested necks and flowing manes? Or would he prefer a hart? A dracolisk? A _nug?_

"Aye, but his favourite is his Fereldan Forder," Blackwall says. "He named him Ruthy. Short for Rutherford." The warden doesn't wink, but a thousand bad jokes about riding flash through Cullen's mind anyway.

"Of course he'd pick a Fereldan horse," Cullen sighs. "They're honest. Not flashy, but noble, brave and clever."

"Bitey too," the Iron Bull says blithely from behind them. "Like his namesake."

Cullen is so appalled that conscious thought falls out of his ears for a solid minute. "Lies," he mutters, eventually. Bull just laughs uproariously. 

"Don't stress your pretty head about it, Commander," Bull says. "As long as it's from you, he'll love it." 

Cullen stares at the stables. Bull is right, he thinks. A horse isn't quite the perfect proposal gift, but it would be practical. And besides, he has no better ideas. 

*

"Cullen, tell me what's wrong."

Cullen is warm and sated and very, very happy, and he's not sure what Trevelyan is talking about. But his lover has the weirdest notion of pillow talk, and when Cullen glances over, he recognises the stubborn look on Trevelyan's face that tells him he's not going to simply back down on this. 

"You've been distracted all week," Trevelyan says. "Is it the roof?"

Cullen sighs. "No, it's not the roof. It's nothing."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you," Trevelyan says dryly. "Talk to me. Is it the lyrium?"

Cullen shakes his head. "Absolutely nothing. I'm fine, Maxwell."

Trevelyan's watching him like a hawk, the gears ticking away in his head. Cullen raises a hand, cups it to the other's cheek, and traces a thumb over his cheekbone. "It's--"

"It's us, isn't it?" Trevelyan says, and Cullen nearly groans at how pigheadedly the Inquisitor can pursue a line of reasoning that's completely wrong. 

"No, it's--"

"Hear me out," Trevelyan continues. "You've been, for the want of a better word, moping. Spending time talking to everyone but me, travelling frequently on your own. If it's a problem with me, or with what we have, I swear I will do anything in my power to fix it."

Cullen wracks his brain trying to think of a response to that that won't give the surprise away. His brain wracks back. Admittedly, it's rather addled after a very vigorous and satisfying bout of love-making. 

Trevelyan, of course, misinterprets his silence. "...Unless it's something I can't fix," he says, his voice low. Quiet. His gaze is assessing, and there is a hint of uncertainty in it that Cullen hasn't seen since the early days of the Inquisition. 

"Maxwell," he says, a touch impatiently this time. "There is absolutely nothing I would change about us." Except, perhaps the lack of a formal engagement. 

"What about children?" Trevelyan asks, quite suddenly. "Forgive me. I never asked." Cullen reads the rest of the unspoken question in his eyes - not just children, but all the trappings of domestic life. The family, the safety, the anonymity, all of which is impossible for Maxwell Trevelyan. 

Cullen laughs softly. "I'll repeat what I said earlier: there is absolutely nothing I would change about us. Can you _imagine_ our offspring? Any child of yours would be a terror. No - I never desired children." Besides, no one has ever really thought about what lyrium does to fertility. Cullen rather suspects that it cannot be anything good.

Trevelyan smiles, and the tension around him dissipates at last. Cullen yawns, adjusts himself so that he has an arm draped around Trevelyan's warm shoulders. He's fully intent on closing his eyes and trying to catch some sleep, when he catches the far-off look in the other's eyes. It suddenly occurs to him that he's never asked about Trevelyan's thoughts on a family.

"What about you?" he says, and Trevelyan turns his attention back to him. 

"What about me?" he repeats, as though caught off guard. "I'm content," he says, but that far-away look is still there, lingering in the corners. "Everything I want is right here."

Cullen doesn't think it's a lie, so he nods. Trevelyan murmurs a goodnight and falls silent, and it isn't long before his breathing evens out into the rhythms of sleep. Cullen himself closes his eyes, but just as he's starting to drift off, Cole's words from before seem to come back to him: _Warm things. Friendly things._

And Cassandra: _Get him what he likes._

And still further back, in the mists of memory, Trevelyan turning to Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, and saying: 

_But serah, one thing that Varric's tale is silent on troubles me. Whatever happened to your dog?_

Cullen's eyes snap right open again, as all thoughts of sleep fly straight out of the window. Trevelyan emits a sleepy groan of protest as Cullen extricates himself, and he murmurs an apology to the other as he slips out of bed, making a beeline for his office. Suddenly, he has the perfect gift in mind.

*


End file.
